


Reassurance

by escriveine



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escriveine/pseuds/escriveine
Summary: Rodney is sure he’s the real McKay.  John needs more than just his word on it.  They have different ideas on what constitutes a valid proof.





	Reassurance

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Season 2 between Condemned and Trinity. Contains spoilers for the Siege.
> 
> Many thanks to the marvelous gutterandthestars for all the encouragement and beta-reading.

Rodney's eyes flickered over the screen of his tablet as he reviewed the fascinating, if moderately repulsive, lab report on the McKay-construct's remains. If he sped through the necropsy section, it was only because biomedical findings were Carson's responsibility, not because he was disconcerted by the ruined features eerily similar to his own. _Scientists do_ **_not_ ** _get the heebie-jeebies, Rodney._

And if the Chief Science Officer immersed himself in technical details to the exclusion of everything else, well, it was literally his job, and didn't count as avoidance.

He scrolled until he reached the section on the intriguing little data devices that were embedded in the construct's core. Their design was beyond anything previously encountered and _clearly_ required meticulous analysis by the most brilliant mind in Pegasus. Preferably before Zelenka accidentally damaged them in a fit of misguided enthusiasm. With a wry half-smirk, Rodney re-focussed on the report.

Eventually, while tapping out a few notes to follow up on later, Rodney happened to glance up as he chased a thought.

 _If we modify the power—what the hell?_ His train of thought ground to an abrupt, slewing halt, because there was Sheppard, standing on the far side of Rodney's quarters, haggard and motionless.

Sheppard’s uniform was crumpled and had a long tear down one sleeve, so he obviously hadn't taken the time to change since the firefight in the Gate Room. Sure, he had dismissed the team, ordering everyone off to get some rest, but he never could manage to stand down after a crisis. Especially when someone had been wounded. He just slogged through paperwork until the Infirmary reported that everyone had been patched up and he could stop by to check on them personally. That kind of thing made the people under his command intensely loyal, and Rodney even got that it was part of what made Sheppard a good leader. But it also made him an idiot, because he never stopped, just kept pushing until he finally crashed fully-dressed onto the handiest horizontal surface in his quarters. At least he'd taken off his sidearm this time.

But, hello, Sheppard wasn't in his quarters, he was here, staring at the floor with an unnerving, fixed expression that Rodney had privately designated _impassive, mark 3._ Career military types seemed to get lot of mileage out of the impassive look; it was probably something that got drilled into them, like saluting. John Sheppard, of course, subverted that standard issue expression, somehow adding layers of nuance and subtext. It was baffling how the man could convey so much information through what was basically a non-expression, it really was. And it drove Rodney a little crazy that he still hadn’t managed to work out the significance of each variant.

He _did_ know what the _mark 3_ meant, however, had seen it up close enough that he couldn't mistake it for anything else. John used it when he was hiding something critical, like a life-threatening wound, because he'd decided everyone needed to focus on something else. Seeing that expression now sent Rodney's gaze skittering, searching for the damage John didn't want him to see. Arms, legs, torso, neck — no conspicuous telltales, no seeping blood, no gargantuan bugs, but something was unquestionably _off._

When his scrutiny circled back to John's face, Rodney jerked, feeling like he'd just taken a stunner blast to the chest. He was shocked and dizzied, but instead of being pitched into oblivion, he got slammed into overdrive. In one breathless instant, every detail of John’s absurdly raffish features became sharp-edged, magnified by the explosive clarity of adrenaline, and, hey, there it was, hiding in plain sight after all.  Rodney’s mind reeled with the cognitive dissonance of clearly seeing dread — grievous and bone-deep — in the murky green eyes of a man he'd never once seen genuinely afraid of _anything._ Ever.

God, he'd had extensive, involved nightmares that were less disturbing than this little tableau. Quicksilver terror made Rodney's mouth go dry and his throat tighten, so he kind of squeaked when he managed to force out, "Sheppard?"

Not waiting for a reaction, Rodney pushed to his feet, ignoring the clatter of his tablet hitting the floor. He stumbled forward while his internal analysis engine raced on, unhindered by actual speech: _He's not answering, but he's upright and breathing. Okay. So if he's sleepwalking, maybe I shouldn't wake him, but he never sleepwalks. Or maybe he does and no one bothered to tell me — that'd be typical, really — but, no, I don't think that's it. What if it's a concussion, should I get him to lay down? Does a concussion make you look like_ ** _that_** _? How am I supposed to know this pseudoscience medical voodoo on top of all the real science necessary for saving the galaxy? And what's the point, the actual point, of wormhole physics, and alien devices and, and me,_ _if he—no. Just, no. Wait, yes, obviously — how can ‘obvious’ take so long — get him to the Infirmary!_

Before Rodney could cover the last two steps separating them, John's head snapped up and his expression hardened into _determined, mark 2. Oh no, no-no-no-no, this is not good, not good at all._ Because this was what John looked like when he was flying the wild edge of recklessness, about to do something any sane person would call dangerous, willing to burn down the whole world to do it. Apparently starting with Rodney’s quarters.

"John? _John!_ "

Without warning, John stepped into Rodney's space, intensity radiating off him in blast waves that rolled over Rodney, compressing him into an external stillness that barely contained the booming frenzy in his chest. John studied him from under furrowed brows, then tilted his head and quietly, almost gently, said, "Convince me."

Rodney was thunderingly confused, so much so that he was starting to wonder if _he_ was the one with a concussion.

"What? I don't… what? Con _vince_ you… ?"

"I need to know that you're the _real_ McKay. So… convince me."

“I'm… I… it's _me,_ Sheppard! Don't you remember shooting the, the, the construct that _wasn't_ me earlier today?” His eyes got wider, his words faster. "Beckett sent me the lab report, I can show you…  There, over there! My tablet.” Rodney pointed off in the general direction of where he had been sitting, waggled his hand for emphasis. Was any of this getting through? “You definitely killed—I mean, not that it was really alive, but you, with your P-90—Look, what matters is that it’s deactivated, and, well, you do _realize_ it was never me, right? So… ”

John shook his head slightly, but his voice stayed low, felt dangerous. "I know. I know that wasn't _my—_ " John's lips compressed briefly. "—Atlantis's McKay. I just… I need to know that you _are_."

Something there was trying to grab Rodney’s attention, but couldn’t get any traction as he grappled with this, this, whatever this was going on with John. "But… I _am_ me, why would you think… ? Oh, come on, I don't know how to make you _believe_ it!"

"Tell me something true. Something you haven't told me before."

"What?!" Rodney scowled as his voice went shrill with outrage. "How does my telling you ‘I found out I was allergic to lemons by nearly dying when my scouting group rigged up some wet cell batteries’ prove anything when you never knew it in the first place?"

"It doesn't, because that's just a, a _fact._ " John waved one hand, like he was shooing mere reality out of the conversation. It would have been comical under almost any other circumstances, but Rodney was fast working his way from bewildered to infuriated, and there was nothing funny about any of this.

Red-faced and shouting now, Rodney demanded, "What the hell is a non-fact-based truth?!"

 _Ah, come on, Rodney,_ **_humor_** _the obviously deranged, possibly concussed flyboy who can think the city into chasing you around the halls with drones!_ "Fine, fine!" he snapped, waving his own hands vigorously, but dropping his volume to something that would fit in the room. "You want a revelation? You want something true? _Fine!_ "

Rodney had no idea where these words were coming from, but it sure didn't feel like his brain was in charge here.  

"Think back to when the Wraith armada descended on Atlantis. You know, that time you said, ‘Hey, let’s fly a Jumper right down their throats,’ then decided to personally pilot that tiny, fragile _toy_ on a jaunt into certain death! Well, guess what? No one — _not even you_ — told me you were running off to be suicidally heroic until you were already out there, surrounded by Darts and weapons fire and there was _nothing_ I could do but count down until a fucking atomic bomb detonated! Everything in your sector _vaporized_ and I—" Rodney's voice faltered, and he dragged air into his lungs like he had a grudge against oxygen. "—I thought my heart was never going to beat again."

He grabbed John's shirt in two convulsive handfuls. "Because, you absolute _bastard,_ you were _gone_ and the last words you said to me were ‘So long, Rodney,’ like that would make anything okay, and until I heard you on the comms — somehow just, just _impossibly_ alive — I didn't know how to _breathe_ anymore! And you… "

 _You’re afraid_ **_I_ ** _might be gone now._ The realization shivered down Rodney’s spine like a trickle of ice water.

 _Enough, John. Enough._ His hands still twisted into the other man’s uniform, Rodney lifted his chin and locked eyes with John. "Now. You tell me: who am I?"

John’s lips parted and he drew in a slightly shaky breath, held it for a moment, then murmured, "Rodney." Like Rodney’s name was amazing, maybe even its own revelation.

With that, Rodney found _he_ was flying a wild edge, right on the verge of something pivotal, momentous; he could feel it there, prodding at his awareness, nebulous but insistent.

John took another, deeper breath and his eyes lost that harrowed look, took on a different intensity altogether.

Finally, Rodney’s brain got with the program and replayed what he’d missed earlier, what he needed to pay attention to now: John transfixed with dread; John declaring ‘That wasn’t _my_ McKay’; Rodney blurting ‘I didn’t know how to _breathe_ ’; Rodney clutching at John. _Oh, hello, that’s_ — No longer nebulous. Decidedly momentous. — _promising._

He hummed speculatively and asked the only question that mattered: " _Your_ Rodney?"

John's lips curved up, and, wow, that was a new expression, one that made his eyes practically glow; Rodney felt his own face grow hot in response. Laying his left hand on Rodney's shoulder, John skimmed his right thumb over Rodney's flushed cheek. "Yeah. _My_ Rodney."

Genuine delight spread across Rodney’s features as he smiled back at John for a long moment.

Then the right side of his mouth hitched a little higher in a challenging smirk. _You’re not getting off that easy, John Sheppard._ "Convince me."

Slowly leaning in, John quirked an eyebrow and confided, "You know, I just told you something true."

Rodney raised _both_ eyebrows back at John because he absolutely, categorically refused to be swayed by John begging the question. Even in that low, throaty voice.

John seemed unfazed as he briefly pressed his smiling lips to Rodney’s in what felt like a greeting, warm and almost familiar. Which was puzzling, since Rodney was quite sure they’d never kissed before. But they should definitely kiss again, should be kissing now, in fact, but John was _talking._ Or rather, murmuring, so close that Rodney was breathing in the words falling from John’s lips.

"So you  need me… to _prove_ it."

Rodney’s eyes fluttered shut as John somehow reached in and pulled that need right through him. Jesus. If his heart exploded, it would be all John’s fault; going from playful to sultry like that, close enough to share body heat, but not to—oh, yes, _finally,_ John figured out about the kissing.

This time, John’s smile relaxed into softness as he languidly caressed Rodney’s lips with his own. It was sensual, yet achingly sweet, and far more overwhelming than any simple kiss should be. He should have guessed that nothing about John would _actually_ be simple, kisses included. Which most emphatically worked for Rodney on so many levels.

He made a small, happy sound in the back of his throat as John went on kissing him. Intently. Thoroughly.  _Sumptuously._

John stroked the side of Rodney’s face and kissed him. Slid long fingers through the fine hairs at Rodney’s nape and kissed him. Gathered Rodney close and kissed him. Kissed Rodney and kissed him.

Okay, yeah, his brain was short-circuiting. But John. Kissing him. Best thing ever.

Impending hypoxia… um, less good? Didn’t matter. Totally worth it.

Eventually, John broke their kiss and Rodney was mildly surprised to find himself settled back against a wall. He tucked away the staggeringly hot implications of John’s full-body multi-tasking skills for future consideration. Right now, Rodney needed to get the hang of breathing again.

Which was a tricky thing to do while standing chest-to-chest with John, smelling the remnants of his aftershave, staring at his kiss-reddened lips. Trickier still when Rodney looked up and found John gazing at him with an expression Rodney had only seen a handful of times, one he thought John reserved for the soaring curve of an alien world expanding across a Jumper viewscreen. Or really, really cool space guns.

_Oh, my._

Rodney couldn’t process, could barely fathom the _existence_ of that look, that _endless blue skies wonder._ About him. For him. Rodney got lost in it as the space between them melted away, until John was pressing lush, damp kisses to Rodney’s lower lip, across his cheek to his temple, to the corner of his eye. John lingered there, warm breath skating over Rodney’s face, and it was so affectionate, so unexpectedly sweet that Rodney couldn’t resist the giddy temptation to flutter his lashes against John’s curvy lips. John huffed out a fond laugh that made Rodney feel inordinately pleased and rather — he was never saying this out loud — smitten _._

With another gentle brush of his lips, John went on to trail kisses around the shell of Rodney’s ear, soundlessly mouthing a word on his way down to suck on the lobe. After Rodney’s shiver subsided, John released the tender flesh, nosing into the soft spot just below to breathe those two syllables again. Rodney was certain it was his own name being worked into his skin, John’s lips and teeth and tongue shaping recognition and desire along his jaw, under his chin.

Answering desire curled through Rodney as he tipped his head back, offering his throat for John to map in an excruciatingly lazy descent. John’s voice was a low rasp now, just audible over the ragged edges of his breathing, and, oh god, Rodney never expected his name in John’s mouth to sound like _that._

Then again, he never expected anything like this slow burn of seduction, or the way John suddenly sealed his open mouth around Rodney’s pulse point, pressing his firm, wet tongue right into the surging beat. Rodney’s blood roared and sang and everything went kind of hazy because this — _yes, please,_ **_this_ ** — was _yearning,_ sweetly, searingly, overwhelmingly mutual.

He desperately wanted to untangle his hands from John’s shirt, guide John’s mouth back up to his own, something, _anything,_ but his brain refused to re-engage. John lifted his head until they were eye-to-eye and a sound that Rodney would forever deny was a whimper escaped his lips because he couldn’t _reach_ , John had him _pinned_ while he hovered just out of kissing range, and god knew Rodney wasn’t above begging, but John was _talking. Again._

"So, _my Rodney,_ what do you say?"

What did he…? Aneurysm _. Aneurysm,_ that’s what, because forget heart attack, John was going to make his _brain_ explode, seriously.

Hmmm, the outrageous prospect of death by seduction interruption had cleared his head a touch.

Enough to realize that John had been engaging in a particularly innovative method of persuasion commonly known as _proof by vigorous kissing._ Because _of course_ John was just that preposterous and devious and — in what might forever ruin Rodney for propositional logic where John was concerned — utterly fucking convincing.

Rodney thought he really should mind a lot more than he did, but John’s expression was this devastating combination of wrecked and earnest and hopeful, and  _sweet mercy_ but Rodney was a complete goner.

Okay, then. If John needed an answer, Rodney was going to reply, even if he was still too dazed for saying, you know, words. At least he’d regained some basic motor control.

So Rodney traced the outline of John’s expectant mouth with one fingertip, following the motion with his eyes. After going all the way around, he laid that finger across both John’s lips in a gentle shushing gesture and said, "Q."

Ignoring the quizzical twist of John’s eyebrows, Rodney laid a second finger alongside the first, adding, "E."

Catching John’s eye, Rodney slid both fingers away and confessed, "D."

John’s answering laugh was purest joy. It was charming and maybe a little goofy and now Rodney was laughing, too. They kissed when they could, and laughed when they couldn’t, and it wasn’t simple, it was _them._

 

They ended up with their foreheads pressed together, Rodney leaning against the wall, John leaning into Rodney, both of them smiling. John closed his pretty eyes and Rodney saw how very, very exhausted he was. Far more relaxed and, yes, well-kissed was a good look on John, but neither of them had slept in at least 36 hours, what with the constructs and the fighting and John ignoring his own orders to stand down.

A fine shudder ran through John, reverberating into Rodney. Was that… ? Rodney was torn between exasperated fondness and wounded pride, because, yes, indeed, _that_ was a myoclonic twitch; John was _falling asleep_ on his feet. Mid-makeout. On Rodney. He felt a lopsided grin stealing over his face and he rolled his eyes. _You didn’t even manage to find a horizontal surface this time._

Apparently it was up to Rodney to keep John from faceplanting right here on the floor, and after a combination of cajoling and actual manhandling, he managed to get John over to the bed where he slid down into a half-sprawl, feet dangling over the side. Rodney carefully removed John’s boots and socks, then lifted his slack, sleep-heavy legs up into a less contorted position.

After shedding his own footwear, Rodney took a moment to appreciate the sight of John casually draped over his bed, arms spread wide, hair giving in to gravity at last and flattening onto his brow. Rodney brushed the errant strands back, then slid his hand around to cup John’s face. John had no business looking that beautiful, long lashes dark above sleep-pinked cheeks, all his usually restless energy melted into this elegant repose.

John gave another small twitch, breaking Rodney’s reverie. He firmly reminded himself that this wasn’t the time for infatuated gawking, it was time to figure out the mechanics of fitting two men into a space barely big enough for one.

It said something about the Ancients that their beds were designed more for the mortification of the flesh than a comfortable night’s sleep, especially with a partner. If that was the only road to ascension, it was no wonder so few of them got there. He still half-suspected that these were the Ancient equivalent of Murphy beds and they just hadn’t found the device that would transform them. For now, John and Rodney would have to make do with his prescription mattress in its narrow frame.

“Come on, scoot-scoot-scoot, the least you can do is share _my_ bed with me… ” Rodney muttered as he gently pushed at John’s shoulder and hip to get him moving. “Oh my god, you weigh a _ton,_ a little help here?”

Instead of moving over, John abruptly sat up, peeled off his shirt, and flung it onto the floor as he flopped back down. What cracked Rodney up, though, was that he could swear John had been asleep the whole time.

Having narrowly avoided an elbow to the face, Rodney leaned back and decided he’d been right all along: John was _so_ Captain Kirk. Come on, he’d torn his sleeve during a fight (which he won), then after some nicely intense kissing, he’d managed to leave his damaged shirt on someone else’s bedroom floor.

Although, hmm, that would make Rodney his voluptuous conquest, which… yeah, what the hell, bring on the green body paint and spangles. He snorted softly; the strange place that just went was somehow John’s doing, not that Rodney ever planned on letting him find out.

“That… wasn’t _exactly_ what I meant, but… ” No one in their right mind would complain about John taking off his shirt. Certainly not Rodney, especially not now that he was _allowed_ to look. And touch. Rodney tore his eyes away for the moment, though, because less looking now meant actual snuggling just as soon as he could get bedspace. And if he couldn’t, he was just going to use John as a body pillow, and hello to _that_ image…  _Focus, McKay!_

Rodney pulled the blanket up over John’s legs and when the other man didn’t stir, Rodney carefully stretched out alongside him. See? A little concentration and—John twisted, pushed _Rodney’s_ shirt up and off, then burrowed into Rodney’s chest.

Rodney dissolved into helpless laughter. Sleep-stripping! John sleep-stripping, and then stripping off _Rodney,_ and John was _still_ asleep, and that was a whole new level of…  He laughed some more because there were just no words.

Meanwhile, John twined around Rodney like a surprisingly endearing, touch-starved octopus, wriggling and nestling into Rodney’s body like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he belonged there. Which he most certainly _did,_ so Rodney was inclined to let John do as he liked. Rodney snagged another pillow, hoping to stave off a crick in his neck later, then tucked the blanket around them both. Settling his arms around John’s shoulders, he thought the room lights off. His lower back was going to complain later, but there were obvious compensations to having an armful of half-naked John.

Though the way he kept shifting around felt awfully fretful. Rodney rubbed soothing circles into John’s shoulders and back, but John just pulled himself tighter against Rodney’s chest. Even this shadow of John’s earlier distress twisted up something inside Rodney’s gut.

He kissed John’s head and spoke softly into his hair, “John, shhh, it’s alright, I’ve got you. I’m safe, I’m here, your Rodney. I’ve got you, John, I’ve got you.” Rodney gently rocked John in time to his words, drawing his palms in long, slow sweeps over John’s back, sharing all the reassurance his body could convey. He continued murmuring, low and steady, variations on themes of safety and affection, comfort and belonging.

Eventually, John gave a long sigh and, relaxing his rib-crushing embrace into something more companionable, settled into a deeper sleep. Rodney gradually slowed his movements as his words tapered off into meandering nothings. He felt his awareness unravelling into John’s even breaths and warm skin, and if he felt reassured by them in turn, well, that was John’s fault, too.


End file.
